The weekend was lovely. The veranda was crowded with pillowed seats, an assortment of tables, decorated gourds, and a jungle of potted plants.

We lounged. We reclined. We milled. We lingered. We lollygagged.

We belonged in a renaissance painting, especially my cousin Zoe.

So much of the weekend consisted of eating, really good eating. Do you know how refreshing it is to eat my kind of food for an entire weekend, without the Children’s Complaining Choir wailing away in stereo? As it were, when each dish was placed before us, we started talking and admiring and poking and asking questions. And then, as soon as we took the first bite, we began to name the ingredients.

It went something like this. For the orange soup with sprigs of mint, we suggested carrot! orange! ginger! lemon! onion! For the potato salad: vinegar! capers!—what are capers anyway?—green peppercorns, I think—oh. For the salad dressing: goat cheese! lemon! olive oil! maple syrup!—no, not maple syrup, honey—oh.

That was just the meal that Dr. Perfection prepared (and only part of it). For the restaurant dinner: grilled watermelon, corn-molasses fritters, peppered brie, a cheese platter, scallop ravioli with provolone cheese, Swiss chard, and black sesame seeds. Chocolate flan, smoked pear-ricotta cheesecake with blue cheese drizzle, coconut-white chocolate ice cream comprised the dessert. There were cocktails and coffee, too.

There was only one hitch to the whole blissful affair—I sustained a mysterious back injury (and it was not due to the yoga, of that I am certain). After sleeping four lovely hours on a feather/air mattress, I awoke at 4:30 with intense back pain. I couldn’t lay down, so I got up, hobbled to the bathroom, and took 1000 mg of Tylenol. I gingerly walked downstairs to the first floor. I paced. I couldn’t move my arm. Was my shoulder out of socket? The grandfather clock ticked eerily. I tentatively tried to perch on the edge of the sofa. Success! I waited. My mother was sleeping in the sun room—I could hear her snoring. I didn’t know my mother snores. Do I snore?

I tried to rub my right shoulder with my left hand. I discovered I could lean back on the sofa. I found a “comfortable” position, chin elevated, but not too high, head slightly tilted to one side. Any variation hurt. Breathing too deeply hurt. Blinking hurt.

It was six o’clock. Was it too early to wake my mother? I cleared my throat. That didn’t hurt. I cleared it again. I waited some more. I breathed.

Surely Mom would be waking up soon. She’d come out and make her coffee and then I could tell her that I hurt. Not that she could really do anything about it.

Shortly after 6:30 and a few more throat clearings, Mom emerged. She made her coffee. She came and sat beside me and rubbed my shoulder for a good thirty minutes. Dr. Perfection woke up and gave me 400 mg of Motrin, and then another 400 mg. The medicine relaxed me enough that I could lay down, and Aunt Valerie and Cousin Amber kept me company as I lay on my bed of pain. After a bit, I kind of passed out.

When I woke up, the rest of the group had finished up with breakfast and were visiting, squeezing in the last few minutes of Veranda Lounging. Dr. P had given us all fancy (and very comfortable) flip-flops. We posed, snapped photos, and departed.

Back home, I glided stiffly through the house, slowly unpacked, half-heartedly helping with the evening chores. I took another 800 mg of Motrin and went to bed.

The next day—Monday, yesterday—I called my friend Shannon. She wasn’t home, so I left a message: He-ey. Just calling to check up. I’m back. Don’t remember your Monday schedule, but apparently you’re not there. Call me when you get back. But I should warn you, I can’t really talk on the phone. I injured myself vacationing—it’s such a strenuous activity, you know—and I have a hurt back and can’t hold the phone with my shoulder so it will have to be a shorter phone call. But anyway, call me. Bye.

When I’m bored, I like to leave long, annoying messages like that. It helps to pass the time.

A little later the phone rang. It was Shannon.

“You will not believe this,” she said pointedly. “Guess where I just was?”

I thought hard for two seconds and then gave it my best shot, “The chiropractor?”

“YES! Over the weekend I developed a knot behind my right shoulder blade and then it radiated up into my neck and I have been in so much pain and couldn’t sleep and can’t hold the telephone with my shoulder and then I went to the chiropractor and she said she’s seen about five people with this very same thing over the last couple weeks and it has a name! It’s called torta-something or other. She said not to stretch it, to treat it like it’s a smashed finger, and to use a simultaneous combo of ice and heat on the sore spot. She said it will go away in several days.”

Do I have a good friend or what? She doesn’t settle for simply feeling my pain, oh no! She goes to the extreme of experiencing the exact same thing, making a trip to the doctor, obtaining a diagnosis and treatment plan, and then filling me in on all the little details…for free! How totally cool is that? True, she did get the privilege of running around with a couple of acupuncture needles stuck in the back of her neck for 24 hours, but I’m okay with that. (My back is already feeling much better—could it be possible that we’re so connected that somehow her needles are helping me?)

I’m relieved to know that my mysterious condition will not last forever and that I’ll soon be able to scrub a toilet and pick up toys without wincing. Not that I really want to scrub toilets or pick up toys, of course.

But then again, I do want to do those things. You know what I mean?

The best part of vacationing is realizing that you wouldn’t want to do it forever. It drives the lesson home even more when you sustain injuries while slacking off.

But even so, I’m already looking forward to next year’s soiree.

I’ll be sure to pack plenty of Motrin.

About One Year Ago: Cross Dressing.

I’m leaving tomorrow morning for the annual soiree at my aunt’s house. My aunts, cousins, mother, sister-in-law, cousins-in-law, plus a couple mutual family friends, all of us, descend upon my aunt (a.k.a. Dr. Perfection) for a day and a half. The itinerary stays mostly the same from year to year: Saturday lunch on the veranda, made and served by Dr. P herself, an afternoon activity (last time it was bike riding and this year we’ve been told to bring our “yoga clothes”), quite probably a Neighborhood Garden Tour (in other words, a walk), dinner at a fancy-schmancy restaurant, a late Sunday morning breakfast revolving around breads from a local bakery (again on the veranda), and then send-off. During the down time, we talk and read magazines, and we’ve (or certain people who will remain anonymous) have been known to do make-overs, try on wigs, and stuff our bras with the decorative globes that sit atop the living room hearth. The whole shebang is entirely worth the four-hour drive there and back.

I realize that my weekend plans have the potential to arouse some feelings of jealousy in the breasts, both ample and otherwise, of my readers, and I sincerely hope that all of you have a Dr. Perfection in your life, or some version of her. However, if you have a ho-hum weekend looming in front of you, two days packed full with menial tasks, meals of leftovers, and churchy activities, then my sincere wishes aren’t going to cut it. But maybe these waffles will?

Cornmeal Whole Wheat Waffles
Adapted from the August 2009 issue of Gourmet magazine.

These are, quite possibly, the best waffles I have ever had. They are tender, light, moist (without being wet), and rich. But maybe even better than the taste (if that’s possible), is the super-easy method. There is no egg-separating or egg white-beating in the recipe, and everything gets mixed up the night before so that in the morning, when you wake up all bleary-eyed and dopey, you only need to add a quarter teaspoon of baking soda to the mixture before ladling the batter into the waffle iron. Heck, they’re easy enough to be weekday waffles!

I substituted whole wheat pastry flour for part of the white flour; next time I plan to replace all of the white flour with whole wheat. I imagine that a couple tablespoons of flax seed meal would be a nice addition.

These waffles are rich, there is no doubt about it. If that bothers you, instead of cutting back on the butter in the waffles (they really are perfect as is), just refrain from putting butter on top of the finished waffle.

2 1/4 teaspoons yeast
½ cup warm water
2 eggs, beaten
2 cups milk
2/3 cup yellow cornmeal
2/3 cup whole wheat pastry flour
2/3 cup all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon sugar
1 ½ teaspoons salt
1 stick butter, melted and cooled a little
1/4 teaspoon baking soda

Stir together the yeast and warm water in a small bowl and set aside to rest for 5-10 minutes.

In a mixing bowl, whisk together the eggs and milk. Add the flours, cornmeal, sugar, and salt. Add the yeast mixture. Stir in the melted butter.

Cover the bowl with plastic (or a shower cap) and transfer to the refrigerator.

Go to bed.

Wake up.

Heat up the waffle iron(s). Add the quarter teaspoon of baking soda and whisk well.

Make waffles.

Serves about four people.

Note: I am submitting this recipe to Wild Yeast Spottings.

About One Year Ago: Hard knocks (don’t click on the link if the sight of blood makes you turn green and dry heave).